


Second Chances

by genmitsu



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Angst, M/M, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2020-10-18 10:08:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20637413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genmitsu/pseuds/genmitsu
Summary: Alternative take on Season 5 ending. I'm ignoring the final episodes and a few events near those, and mix others in a different way.---Oswald Cobblepot was incarcerated in Blackgate. An escape attempt went horribly wrong, and now Jim Gordon tries to exist in Gotham with no Oswald in it.But it seems like he might have a chance at a do-over...





	1. Vertigo

**Author's Note:**

> This starts out as so very grim, but I hope you will bear with me for a while - it's going to get better, I promise :)
> 
> The chapter title comes from Raphael Lake song "Vertigo". Give it a listen~

An annoying morning drizzle greets Jim - and just when he intends to dedicate this whole day to searching for the perp. An aimless, joyless task, but somebody’s gotta do it, so why not him? Rain - so what. Jim practically pays it no mind by now.

He never takes an umbrella with him, saying he doesn’t need his hands full. Harvey suggests he wears a hat at least, and Jim even buys it and wears it to the precinct. It makes him a subject of many jokes from his coworkers that day, and Jim even laughs with them and says he’d be as inseparable with his hat as Bullock is with his own… but it ends up with Jim forgetting it, either at home or in the car. Harvey tells him something about taking care of his damn health, sometimes Lucius joins him, all to the same result - Jim listens to them both, nods and agrees, but he uses neither the umbrella nor the hat. Why would he?

Harvey threatens to switch him to desk duty, he makes that threat every time Jim comes into the precinct feeling unwell or not completely recovered from an injury. He calls him to his office, chastises him, yells at him, begs him to be sensible, cusses him out, and yet it all ends the same way - Harvey takes out the whiskey bottle, pours them both a drink, and sighs heavily. He thinks that he knows what is happening with his former partner.

Harvey doesn’t know shit.

Jim drowns himself in work. As always. Of course, as always, can he even do it any other way? You can’t catch them all, Harvey tells him, echoing Jim’s inner voice. You’ve already made your main arrest. Calm the fuck down.

Harvey thinks that this would cheer Jim up. It’s funny how a person with so much experience, a person who considers himself Jim’s friend, can be so blind to the obvious. Jim’s nails leave marks in his palms and he frowns deeply, and it could be perceived as Jim still feeling so strongly about saving Gotham - as his determination, as his strong moral principles still making him outraged, even after several years… But Jim drinks that awful cheap whiskey and frowns even more.

“Old habits die hard,” Harvey chuckles. Even despite his promotion and a considerable increase in his salary, he still bought the cheapest whiskey he could find.

“It gets its job done, and I don’t need anything else,” he says.

Jim can’t stand these talks of theirs, can’t stand Harvey’s friendly sympathy. He wants to hide, to leave, and he jumps at the slightest opportunity to get back to work. Harvey lets him go, shaking his head at him and muttering something that sounds a lot like “freaking workaholic”, but Jim is already closing the door behind him and he rushes away, away from the precinct. He feels much better in those dirty streets, filled with the same kind of scum that he is.

Harvey commends him in the regular reports and hints at promotion, as if saying that Jim should’ve had enough of their weird castling and it was time for Jim to get back to his own position, one he was meant for.

“I’m just keeping the commissioner’s seat warm for you, Jimbo,” Harvey says when Jim allows their seemingly friendly talks to run longer. “But I’m too old for this shit.”

Harvey is tired. Jim knows it like nobody else, but now he has no pity even for his former friend. Everything that was ever good in him is dead now, buried under the collapsed wall, smeared onto the rubble with the sheer force of that explosion.

Don’t think about it.

Don’t think about it, Jim tells himself a thousand times a day, and he still does. He remembers that gaze, that smile, even despite himself. The colour of those eyes, suddenly brought to memory by something completely different.

Jim didn’t attend the service. What could they be burying there, Jim’s heart? There was nothing there. Next to the parents’ graves, of course, just like the will stated. The cenotaph was a simple one, almost elegant. Jim wants to smash it to pieces. He doesn’t go there, oh no. He’s been there twice and both times he barely managed to leave, barely managed to restrain himself. The bullet he almost shot to his head must still be there somewhere.

Wimp.

Don’t think about it.

Jim turns the collar of his jacket higher, shielding himself from the wind. The grave chill is his constant companion now, as if Jim himself is lying next to him six feet under. Jim wishes he was, but every time he tries something seems to stop him. Is it cowardice? But no, Jim’s not afraid to die, not anymore. The worst thing has already happened to him.

Maybe it’s the city that they both loved and that couldn’t just let them go, maybe it’s holding Jim back as well, a living reminder of consequences that follow if you allow others to pressure you, if you let them decide what happens to your fate, your honour and your conscience.

Damn it to Hell.

Jim walks those streets, searching, searching, the best kind of bloodhound who doesn’t care about himself at all. If he’s still alive, if he still stays in this city, if he’s trampled and destroyed his own self trying to make Gotham better… then this job will be his punishment and his atonement, until he drops dead somewhere, until the city’s filth swallows him, finally accepting him as its part.

The day flies past with no results. Jim only managed to find out that the suspect frequented bars in a certain area, and Jim drives there even though it’s getting late. That area is considered a part of Gotham by some kind of mistake, certainly, because Jim’s hardly ever heard about it before, not to mention visiting it. It should narrow his search, but instead Jim walks and asks around and it gives him no result whatsoever.

His stomach rumbles in dissatisfaction, and this is the only thing Jim hasn’t learned to ignore yet. The cold, the failures, the helpless anguish are all familiar now. The hunger… it reminds Jim that he is still alive. Unfortunately.

He enters the next bar not for the sake of his investigation but lured by the smells of good food instead. It’s a small basement place, some neon signs, the black steps. Inside it’s more cosy - the walls are wood-paneled, the tables are clean, and the leather armchairs look very inviting, especially in the more dark corners. Jim sits at a table and starts perusing the menu - it looks fairly decent too, with a definite lean towards burgers, and just the names of those make his mouth water. His body doesn’t want to play his game, not at all, and persistently demands food, but Jim doesn’t want to pamper himself, so when a waitress comes to take his order he just asks her for a house special.

“Would you like a salad? Some fries?” she asks and then laughs when Jim’s stomach rumbles loudly again.

“Yeah,” Jim says. “Both, please.” Because Lucius lectured him about the importance of vegetables in one’s diet and the way it benefits the eyesight, and Jim doesn’t want to end up a useless detective.

“Anything to drink?”

“Beer, please.” After all, his shift is long over, and some light alcohol is just what he needs right now. “Something simple,” he says, preempting her next question, because the drinks selection here is staggering.

“Okay,” she nods. “It’ll be right up. Archie!” she calls the bartender, walking away from Jim’s table. “Get me a pint of number five!”

Jim leans back in the armchair and closes his eyes. There are many customers here but the place still feels cosy and secluded. Jim feels surprisingly calm here for some reason, and he hasn’t felt that calm for a long time. He’s so tired, so tired of it all, of that terrible emptiness, of being so alone, so utterly alone, and having no hope of ever finding another. He tried. He tried mechanically, even before the explosion, to continue something with Lee. She appeared out of the blue, her memory all fucked up, and she completely forgot why they broke up before in the first place, and she continued to nag him about Barbara and his job, and then he had a dream of marrying her in the precinct with Harvey happily officiating the ceremony. But even in that dream she kept going on about Jim ruining her life, and so Jim broke up with her firmly, ending it all for good. Her presence only made him feel more alone, because she could never understand him the way-- the way he needed to. And the dark hair spilling over the pillow was too long, and the eyes too dark, and Jim felt empty, he felt hopelessly lonely and empty with her.

He thought that it would be different with Barbara - after that, and trying to prove to himself that he wasn’t destroyed in that explosion next to him, being stubborn as a mule about continuing on - because it didn’t have anything to do with him, anything at all! - but she just smiled at him.

“No, Jim, my dear. We’ve tried that already,” and she stroke his cheek and kissed him on the forehead, so sisterly, and then, finally, for the first time since the explosion, he could let himself cry.

Barbara stayed with him, understanding more than the rest of them. It was difficult for him to stay with her too, but for different reasons. There were too many things between them and next to them, weaving around them like a web and never letting them forget. She allowed Jim to stay at her office for as long as he pleased and she brought him their daughter, and the child’s big bright eyes managed to distract him, even if for a little while. But even for them Jim couldn’t make himself look towards the future.

“Here you are!” the waitress says, putting down the plates with the food and his glass of beer. Jim thanks her and rubs his face, chasing away the sad memories and thoughts. If he has to think about anything, then it should be about him… about his voice, about his tender gaze - no one ever looked at Jim the way he did, and no one would, and…

Don’t think about it.

Jim tries to focus. He has to eat, at least, because there’s still that long way home ahead of him. He bites into the burger hungrily, and for several minutes he is completely lost to everything around him. The beer is also perfect, light, cold, complementing the food so well, and Jim feels almost ashamed of himself for enjoying his meal so much.

What an incredible place, he thinks. Crowded, but calm, and no one bothers him, and the food is nice, and talking to the waitress somehow managed to lift his spirits - and how can he feel so good right now?

Jim remembers the salad and scarfs it down, and then he leans back again and drinks his beer slowly, finishing up the fries. Maybe he should order another glass of this? The waitress is busy, but the bar counter is just there, so--

What is it? Is it happening again, is Jim seeing him again in anyone remotely similarly looking? And those were always mistakes, only mistakes, because how could Jim see him alive when he was dead, dead, dead for good! - there were only superficial similarities, like the height, the build, or the hairstyle…

But now Jim sees him from the back, and still he cannot mistake him. No other man, no Indian-Hill monster capable of shapeshifting, no one else in the entire world could copy that tilt of his head, that posture.

“Oswald,” Jim whispers, and he can’t believe himself.


	2. It's something that you do to me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly meant to post this a lot earlier, but my PC died and I had to fix it before getting back to the fic.  
I hope you enjoy this~
> 
> The title of the chapter comes from the song "Sorry" by Nothing But Thieves.

Jim could say he would recognize him in a thousand of others and he wouldn’t be lying. Those gestures, those movements, so relaxed now but still _ the same_, they capture his eye. He knows, he already knows who stands there before him, without seeing his face, without seeing anything but his back and his hands, he knows by his heart, his memory, his mind, even though he tries to rein himself in, convince himself he is mistaken. Jim can’t get a clear look at his face - either a customer passes by, or the bartender turns away, or someone waves their arms… Jim can’t catch a good look, can’t be sure even knowing. He’s so tense, like a taut string, he might snap at any moment, and what good would it be? Jim makes a conscious effort to unclench his jaw, to sit back in his chair.

He still can’t see him, not well, anyway. Jim closes his eyes, listening. The chatter of the customers provides a white noise, all the voices mashing up into something uniform and blended.

Concentrate.

He can ignore everything that’s to his left. Jim concentrates all his listening capabilities, aims them towards the bar, where there’s something, something… A glass clinks on the counter, and someone asks for a beer Jim can’t discern the name of, and then he listens - waits - for the reply, for the voice, for the confirmation.

When he finally hears it, the tension leaves his body at once and if feels like he’s flying. Jim takes a shaky breath, realizing he’s been holding it all this time. That is his, _ his _ voice. He’s smiling, Jim can hear it, and he’s saying something nice, and Jim just enjoys the sounds. No angels in Heaven could come close to the sound of the voice of Oswald Cobblepot.

Jim is afraid to open his eyes. What if it’s just a hallucination, what if he’s gone completely mad clinging to these feelings? He sits, still and listening, but there’s no one talking at the bar counter, and Jim can only hear that white noise of people, the low hum of their tones, broken sometimes by sudden bursts of laughter.

How could that be? How, why is he here, alive - he was at the center of the explosion, and the DNA test showed it really was him… And - Jim feels a sudden pang of irrational, burning hurt - why didn’t he let him know? why didn’t he show up, letting him know that Gotham, and Jim himself, would never be rid of him, that he would rise up time and again, ready to fight for it? Penguin is the most ambitious and relentless bastard in Gotham and he wouldn’t let anyone doubt that. So why?

The cold pierces Jim at the thought. He already knows the answer, he’s known it all this time, it’s just - no, he’s not lying to himself, no thanks, he’s learned his lesson about that… It’s just that he avoided thinking about it. But now Jim can’t get rid of these thoughts.

His new status of the Commissioner meant he had to interact with the city officials so much more. Aubrey James was mayor again, persistent like the rat he was, and maybe he wasn’t the best choice, but he was something familiar. The people want something familiar, Lucius explained when they were out drinking, celebrating Jim’s promotion. It didn’t matter that Gotham wasn’t all that well during mayor James’ reign, because now he served as a reminder of a more peaceful time. Relatively peaceful. And the higher-ups let them know that Gotham had to remain _ peaceful_, otherwise… Jim didn’t want to think what would happen otherwise. Once again - martial law, lack of resources, criminals running rampant, and civilians taking the brunt of it, the civilians that had nothing to do with it, who were citizens of his city he’d sworn to protect.

It also meant the pressure that didn’t compare to the past, when he was only a detective. Now the big cases had to be closed fast and with great pomp - the heroic GCPD officers saving the day, upholding the law, catching another dangerous criminal and standing guard between the citizens and the forces of evil - all that propagandic bullshit. People need that, mayor James told him, more open with him now, like an old acquaintance. You do understand that, Commissioner Gordon.

Jim understood.

You do know what would happen if we let them see nothing’s changed, that the police is still corrupt and make deals with criminals easily, mayor James was telling him, glancing at him meaningfully. He felt braver now, with higher-ups supporting him, and thought that he was allowed to _ reproach _Jim. He kept saying, well, we’re starting Gotham anew, turning a new leaf, and we won’t tolerate past mistakes. It will be a safe city protected by the law. Wasn’t that what you wanted, James? Wasn’t that what you’ve been fighting for all this time? Wasn’t that what you wished for your daughter?

Jim had to make an enormous effort to keep his face calm - Essen, Barnes and Harvey could be proud of him. He grit his teeth harder, he smiled, he nodded vaguely, avoiding a definite answer, and he hurried away from the mayor’s office, back to the precinct where Harvey, Alvarez and Harper were waiting for him. He tried to sweeten the news, but it was still pretty bitter - they were not getting more funding, the speed was still the priority, they had to up the percentage of solved cases, show themselves in the best light, and to get more people to join the force…

The bureaucracy was exhausting. Jim longed for those times when he could leave the paperwork in favour of tracking down a suspect, of interrogating witnesses, analyzing clues. Consulting his CIs. At least one of them…

He and Oswald grew closer after those terrible days. They kept meeting in some neutral territories, talking about something general, something uniting - about their city, and which of its areas needed maximum support, and how to organize that… Oswald behaved the way he did during his election campaign, and he promised a lot but he did even more, and Jim was sure that his criminal ways were left behind. He was sincerely impressed by Oswald’s organizational talents and the way he could catch anyone’s attention, make even a whole crowd of different people listen to him. And now, when they were standing on the same side, together… Jim was ready to welcome Oswald as the mayor of Gotham, he was already happy to - because what other option could there even be?

Instead, they had to welcome Aubrey James, and listen to his inauguration speech and promises that - Jim was sure of it - were only going to be fulfilled by half, if at all. Oswald’s face showed nothing of his disappointment, he was smiling and saying something about loyalty to the traditions, but Jim knew him well enough to hear that hint of bitter irony in his voice. Jim tried to get a hold of him after the inauguration, he almost reached him too, but the crowd of people separated them and Jim could only catch his sad gaze, and then Oswald was gone. He appeared again when Jim was being promoted to Commissioner, and he stood aside, unfailingly elegant as always, and he smiled at Jim. That gaze, that smile were the reward Jim wanted the most, more than the city’s appreciation, more than the medal and congratulations from anyone else. Jim couldn’t catch him then either, ambushed by the reporters and the questions they bombarded him with as they blinded him with flashes of their cameras. And after…

After, Aubrey James made him understand that any contact with the former criminal elements would cost them everything. That the higher-ups didn’t want to agree to amnesty, that they didn’t want to give in, and he had to work really hard to convince them the amnesty would serve Gotham’s peace more than demonstrative arrests. That the balance in the city was still shaky, still fragile, and Jim shouldn’t be risking it. That if any contact was initiated, Jim couldn’t be the one to do it.

Jim had trouble accepting that. His first thought was to contact Oswald at once, see what he thought about that, what he was planning to do. Jim didn’t only because he realized he was being egotistical and he didn’t know where Oswald really stood in regards to that. He had no way of knowing, too, and he didn’t want to make trouble for Oswald either. Who knew if he was being followed or tracked…

Too many eyes and ears in this goddamn city, and Jim couldn’t get the info to Oswald without anyone else seeing him do that. He tried behaving as usual, he frequented the same spots and venues as before, hoping to run into Oswald again, but to no avail. There was nothing about Oswald, no news of him or his criminal empire through any of Jim’s channels. Nothing big. Nothing at all. Nothing.

And then, out of the blue - an attempt on the mayor’s life, a robbery of three banks at once, and a bomb in the Gotham Gallery - and all the witnesses kept saying they saw Oswald at the scenes, accompanied by Nygma. Jim rushed all over the city, trying to get to them before anyone else, but some unknown patrolman got lucky first.

Then came the trial, the show one, that lasted a week. Nygma was talking a lot, all of it gibberish, he kept changing topics and he kept denying everything. Oswald admitted to getting Nygma out of the city in his car when they were stopped, but he denied everything else from the start and then just kept his silence. Oswald was silent. Jim tried to arrange a meeting with him, he insisted that he was the lead detective in his case. Aubrey James transferred the case to the federal agents. Jim wasn’t even summoned as a witness.

He tried to catch Oswald’s eye in vain. He tried to make those federal agents spill the beans, in vain. He went to the mayor, he was ready to go even further, reach anyone, if only he was allowed to talk to Oswald. “I’ll find out what happened, he would tell me,” Jim kept insisting. He was still refused. Mayor James looked at him with pity, allowing him to get it out, but he still shook his head in the end.

“James,” he said. “It’s already decided. Please understand that you cannot rehabilitate them. They’re criminals.”

He stopped Jim’s protests by raising his hand.

“I do understand your feelings, considering how closely you worked with them during the siege. But try to understand, James… It’s already over. You can affect the outcome in only one way.”

“Which is?” Jim asked, feeling cold seep into his bones.

“Coming forward as a witness for the prosecution.”

Jim will never forget the moment Oswald’s eyes finally met his, for the first time during the trial. Everything else was hazy, as if through the fog, but those eyes were burning in front of him, searing his soul and pinning him down, like a deer in the headlights.

He’s cold again.

He’s so fucking cold, and it’s loud in here, and he shouldn’t be here, no, not him, not after that… And Jim wants to _ see _ him so desperately, but he doesn’t deserve it at all.

Jim leaves money on the table and walks out of the cozy bar, climbing those black steps towards the cool spring night. He doesn’t look back, even though his soul is yearning for it, for return.

His flat is familiarly dark and cold too, but for the first time in those long months Jim can breathe freely. For the first time he falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.


	3. Quicken up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so terribly sorry for taking so long with the update. Work keeps kicking my butt T_T  
I do hope you enjoy this.
> 
> The chapter title comes from The Vaccines - "Want You So Bad".

Jim wakes up considerably later than usual, covered in sweat, still chasing some half-remembered dreams. He rubs at his face vigorously, trying to get himself to wake up properly, and he blinks, staring at the ceiling. Yesterday - what was that? A dream? A hallucination? He sure as hell could’ve overworked himself to hallucinating, it wouldn’t be surprising at all, he’s running himself into the ground as it is. Must be why Harvey wasn’t looking for him in the morning, deciding he was already on the case, or sleeping in, and Harvey would be more glad if it was the latter.

But… now he can’t just go and forget yesterday, anyway. Because that was him, that was Oswald, that was Oswald’s voice! And… what now? He’s laying low, no doubt, waiting for something. Why else would he base himself at some bar in the city’s outskirts? He must be gathering information, accumulating his assets, to make his comeback when the moment is right. And Jim… yeah, Jim would be glad to see that. But then it will all repeat again - charges, chases, arrests, trials… incarceration. And Jim wouldn’t be able to take this. Not anymore.

Jim makes himself get up and walks to the bathroom. His reflection catches his eye all of a sudden, and, God, he looks like shit. He’s almost gaunt, definitely too pale, and his stubble is out of control… He’s almost completely forgone shaving, since it also helped him to blend in more with the crowd at the places he checked, looking for his perp, but it really gave him a nasty look. Barbara hinted gently at him needing better grooming, said that he’d scare the baby, but he didn’t care then. What about now?

Oswald always looked impeccable. Even when he escaped from Arkham, that second time, and he was all cold and ruffled, even then the way he looked made Jim’s breath catch in his throat. And now, to come before him looking so unkempt… No, no way. Oswald would just laugh at him, won’t even listen to him, and Jim _ has _to convince him to stop. They will be able to find some other option - an appeal maybe, a retrial, anything, anything at all - just so that Oswald would be safe and could be convinced to get the power to rule Gotham by lawful means… Funny how they never discussed it before. Why was it?

“They’re criminals”, Aubrey James said. Was that why? Jim was that rigid, that used to the idea, that he couldn’t imagine Oswald willing to try other means? Or maybe he didn’t want him to, maybe Jim wanted to own Gotham himself by being her sole defender, the only person of importance in the city - and that meant that Oswald had to remain his adversary?

But now it’s not the same as before.

Jim washes himself very carefully, rubs his skin with the washcloth and he doesn’t skimp on shower gel, trying to rid his skin and his hair from the smells of tobacco and alcohol. He shaves off the stubble and that thing that refused to become moustache - he tried to grow it out in sign of his bereavement, but it wouldn’t grow, staying just a ridiculous kind of brush over his lip instead. He dabs some aftershave into his skin. The movements are all familiar, all rousing, remembered by his body’s mechanical memory. Now the reflection in the mirror shows not the pale and uncertain scarecrow, but someone who looks a little bit like that dashing Detective James Gordon whom Oswald once liked so much.

It’s one thing to get yourself looking presentable and quite another - to face Oswald. What if he refuses to see him? The bar surely has some bouncers. And Jim could flash his badge, could even get a warrant, maybe, but it would just make it worse and attract unnecessary attention.

He can’t go in his usual suit either, it would look out of place in a bar like that. Jeans, white t-shirt and his leather jacket should be fine. Casual enough to not stand out too much, good enough to… Pleasing Oswald’s eye should be the last thing on his mind, but he can’t ignore it anyway. Jim’s hidden these thoughts and desires from himself for too long. He’s regretted his stubborn stupidity that didn’t allow him to even imagine a way for them to be together for too long. And they could’ve been! Oswald looked at him with eyes that left no doubts to that. But no, Jim had to be a rigid stubborn ass - and what now, do you like where it led you?

Jim frowns at these thoughts. He can chew himself out forever and it would still not be enough. It’s better to get a grip and face Oswald, try to somehow make better this mess that was entirely his own fault.

He has trouble finding that exact bar. Last time he just walked into in on a whim, and he left it in such a turmoil he didn’t care to memorize the location. He did remember some details - neon signs, black steps leading down, into the bar. He had to try a couple other places which turned out completely different on the inside before he found the right one.

He stands in front of the entrance, suddenly shy, as if he’s fourteen again and he’s been summoned to the principal’s office or something. What the hell. He’s here on business. He’s here to help. His heartache and his trepidations have to be left for later, if there will be a ‘later’ at all. If Oswald doesn’t order him kicked out at once. Jim takes a deep breath and opens the heavy door.

The bar is almost empty inside - Jim’s come so early, almost to the start of their work hours. There’s just a couple of patrons inside, and there’s no one behind that bar counter. Jim walks towards it, tensely, almost mechanically, trying not to let his determination leave him. If he has to wait - he will wait. He suddenly thinks that bartenders usually work in shifts, and today could be another person’s shift. Then I’ll wait for the opportunity regardless, Jim thinks, sitting on the bar stool. With nothing to do, he busies himself by studying that board with numbers over the bar that has at least thirty kinds of beer to select from, and damn him if he understands any of the abbreviations by them.

“Made up you mind?” he hears a slightly familiar voice and turns to see that waitress from yesterday. She smiles at him.

“Still thinking,” he gives her a reserved smile back.

“Okay. Let me know when you’re ready,” she nods to some table to the side, where she sits, probably. “It’s quiet here for now.”

Jim nods and she leaves him alone. His phone vibrates with a message from Harvey, asking him where he’s at. Jim texts him back saying he’s chasing a lead and puts his phone back in his pocket. When he raises his head again, there’s Oswald there, behind that bar counter and right in front of him.

Jim watches him, frozen still and unable to control himself at all. God only knows what his face shows. It’s Oswald, every familiar line and angle of him, real and present and not a memory - and he’s so different too. His hair is styled differently, Jim notes helplessly. His eyeliner is more messy, as if on purpose, and his eyes shine even brighter for it, and they’re so green too… Jim’s gaze travels lower and he notices - piercings. Two rings in his lower lip. God. He never thought Oswald would want to rock such a punkish look, he always preferred something more classic, but… nonetheless…

“Okay, I know I look stunning, but someone looking at me with their jaw dropped is definitely a first,” Oswald chuckles, cocking his eyebrow, and God damn it, how Jim missed this small gesture of his!

But he is gaping like a total idiot, and he’s staring like one as well.

“Sorry,” he says, trying to get a grip. “I…”

What? Missed you? Haven’t seen you for so long? Yeah, it’s been a while, right after that trial where they gave you a ten years sentence based on my testimony, oh, and the weather is nice today, don’t you think?

“I can recommend you something if it’s difficult to make up your mind. You’ve been staring at the tapboard for ten minutes already,” Oswald continues. “What are you in the mood for? Something light, something strong, something simple, something complex?”

“What?” Jim freezes. What. So. So… Oswald is completely undercover here? And those waiters are not his underlings? But that’s just weird, what if he needs to act fast? Or maybe he doesn’t want to let on that he knows Jim? But why, what for?

“Beer. Or a cider. Or maybe you want…” Oswald looks at him appraisingly, tilting his head to the side, and Jim’s heart is practically bursting from how attractive he is - and what, was it flirting, was it something suggestive, or… “Tea?”

Is that a code word?

“Sorry?”

“Tea,” Oswald repeats. “Black. Or green. With some sugar and a bit of disdain. You’re in a bar, after all.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t get it, Oswald, that’s…”

Oswald frowns in confusion.

“‘Oswald’?” he says, slightly surprised. “We don’t have one like that.”

Jim gestures to him, like, no, you’re here, I mean you, and he starts talking but he stops abruptly when Oswald turns his head to check the tapboard and demonstrates a tattoo on his neck. A _ tattoo_. On Oswald’s neck.

Fuck.

Jim has always seen him literally buttoned up, except one time. They were at some Chinese place then, organizing some free meals for the homeless, still abundant and even growing in the recovering city. The main hall was frantically busy with preparing and packing those meals, and he and Oswald were provided with the owner’s office, way back, to go through the logistics and planning. Jim never thought he’d be involved in something like that, but there he was, well into the night, deciding how to distribute the vehicles and the men they had between stations.

There was virtually no ventilation in that office. It soon became too hot, even despite the half-opened door, which only carried in the heady odours of food and spices. Jim removed his suit jacket almost right away and took off his tie as well. Oswald held on for longer, much longer, and then he wobbled and Jim caught him by the shoulder, not letting him fall.

“I’m sorry, Jim,” Oswald muttered, hiding his eyes and clearly being embarrassed at the perspiration on his forehead. “It’s a little bit stuffy in here.”

“Take off your jacket at least, what are you enduring this for?” Jim told him, nudging him towards the armchair. He didn’t think Oswald would listen to him, he was always so stubborn when he didn’t need to be, but, nonetheless, Oswald did unbutton his suit jacket, lingered a little, and then took it off. Jim had to swallow then, thinking he should avert his eyes maybe - but why, when Oswald wasn’t getting naked in front of him, for fuck’s sake! Then Oswald turned towards him, pulled on the knot of his tie and slid it off his neck, letting it rest together with his jacket on the back of that armchair, and he frowned, deep in thought, and, as if forgetting himself, unbuttoned the first two buttons on his shirt collar.

“Right, Jim, listen, we have to send…” Oswald continued talking about his idea, and Jim couldn’t tear his eyes away from his pale neck, so tender-looking, a vampire’s wet dream, no less, and that delicious notch between his clavicles.

That night he almost rubbed himself raw, imagining how he left hickeys all over that pale skin, how they stayed a dark mark under Oswald’s rigid collar, invisible to all - a perfect secret for two. How he trailed his wet tongue over that neck, ending up at the clavicle notch, and how Oswald writhed beneath him, exposing his neck even more, and how he moaned when Jim once again sucked his skin between his teeth, leaving small bites - there could never be enough of those marks, after all…

“No, I meant,” what did he mean, anyway? “That we need to talk.”

“Oh?” Oswald turns to face him again, looking at Jim with interest. “But what about? I don’t even know you.”

It’s like a hit to your solar plexus that leaves you unable to take a breath or to move, only letting you stare. Was it… revenge? For the trial, for everything that Jim’s done before? God knows he’s done enough, and Oswald had plenty of reasons to hate him, it’s just that, he’s always forgiven Jim before, even when Jim didn’t ask for it, and he always left himself open to Jim. And now, it seems, this kind of thing is over, and his almost childish pretense hurts more than Jim could’ve imagined.

“Oh wait, I get it!” Oswald perks up and smiles coyly. “That was a pick-up line, right? Like, ‘I saw you in my dreams’. Seriously? Whoa!”

Jim blinks, thoroughly confused, and not understanding why Oswald is playing with him that way - pushing him away and saying he doesn’t know him, and then pulling him back and flirting again. He was bracing himself up for a scandal, for accusations, for coldness, for a well-deserved punch even, but not for this.

“Archie,” the waitress comes up and distracts Oswald. “Get me three pints of number two, okay?”

Oswald nods to her and turns to the taps.

“Archie?” Jim latches onto the word. “Is that your name?”

“Yeah,” Oswald flashes him a smile. “Archibald Ford, at your service,” and he gives him a sort of a half-bow, only to laugh at his own flourish the next moment. “Just Archie, of course. And you are?”

And there’s nothing in his expression that would hint at this being a joke.

Oswald is a liar. He’s always been a perfect liar, a perfect actor, a perfect manipulator, and he knew when and whom to tell a truth, a half-truth, or a blatant lie… But he never lied to Jim.

Never.

“Jim,” he introduces himself, hearing his own voice as if from a distance, and offers Oswald his hand.


	4. We are lost, we are found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Umm... okay. I'm not dead and not MIA from this, but I am, unfortunately, very overworked and have very little time for literally anything outside of work :/  
I'm very sorry for taking so long with this chapter guys. I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> The title comes from INXS - We Are Thrown Together

Oswald shakes Jim’s cold palm, and his touch is warm and sure in contrast. Jim smiles back at him, and the smile feels alien to him, as if glued onto his face.

“So, Jim… What would you like?”

“Something light, I guess…” Even though he wants exactly the opposite, even though he wants a bottle of the cheapest whiskey there could be, so that alcohol would burn him down to his core and expel that terrible cold feeling in the pit of his stomach, the one that feels so awfully wrong.

“Hm… how about some cider?” Jim nods and Oswald pours the light liquid into the glass. “This is a simple and light one.”

Jim drinks it, trying to calm down the wild beating of his heart. Oswald’s handshake was warm, and he’s not nervous, and he looks at him with interest, but his gaze is different, so different without…

Hell, what is Jim even looking for in his eyes.

“How do you like it?”

“It’s nice,” Jim says.

“Great,” Oswald smiles radiantly at him. “Tell me if you want a refill.”

He walks aside, getting busy talking with the waitress, and Jim can’t tear his eyes from him. Everything about him is elusively different - he’s more relaxed and more open, his hair is differently styled, his clothes are different too… just regular pants and a shirt, in familiar dark colours, but definitely not as expensive as he used to wear. And yet his manners are just the same. The small gestures, the microexpressions, the quirks of his eyebrows - everything screams that this is Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot, aka the Penguin, ex-underling of Fish Mooney, ex-mafia boss, ex-mayor, ex-criminal kingpin, ex-arms monopolist, ex-saviour of Gotham, ex, ex, ex… never his ex. Jim fumbles with his glass, watching the cider swirl inside. Oswald is smiling at the waitress with such warmth, and she touches his arm, telling him something, and he’s laughing. Jim gulps down his drink. When was the last time he’d heard Oswald laugh?

“More?” Oswald asks, returning to him.

“Yeah,” Jim nods. “Uh… how long have you been working here?”

“About a year, I guess,” Oswald puts the glass in front of him and settles more comfortably behind the counter, bracing his elbows on it. “And I’ve never seen you here before. Are you new in town, or something like that?”

“No… I… I’ve lived here for a long time. I just never happened to visit this particular area somehow. What about you?”

“Uh… I suppose?” Oswald pauses and this makes Jim perk up. Maybe this will shed some light?

“What do you mean, you ‘suppose’?” he asks, trying to keep the tension from his voice.

“Well, do you remember that mess with the bridges blown up? Then… well, at least I think that was then,” Oswald laces his fingers in front of him nervously. Pale, slender, strong fingers that Jim knows so well. “Anyway, I must have been hit hard then. Most of the stuff is still foggy, but the doctors said it’ll pass, I just need to give it time.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, I know, it sounds like a soap opera or something,” Oswald laughs. “But hey, it happened to me. I never thought it happened to anybody.”

“And… was no one looking for you?” Of course, who would, when his parents are long gone, when the underlings that were really loyal to him were all killed, when his life was full of betrayals and walking on the edge. But Jim has to ask, fishing for some kind of memories Oswald could still retain.

“No,” Oswald says, pushing away slightly. “I guess if there was anyone, they might’ve been hit harder than I had been in that mess. So…” he grins mischievously again, “you, Jim, are the first person to find me.”

Jim gulps down his cider again, trying to quell his nerves.

“That  _ was  _ a pick-up line from you, wasn’t it?” Oswald looks at him with a glint in his eyes. “Or was I mistaken?”

“No,” Jim shakes his head and tries to smile. “You weren’t.”

“Right! Then, I hope that I’ll be seeing you again,” he leans closer to Jim and lowers his voice conspiratorially. “Because I don’t mind that at all.”

He moves back and leaves Jim alone at the bar. The phone vibrates in Jim’s pocket persistently, not a message, but a call. Harvey. And Jim’s not busy with the investigation right now, at least not the one he mentioned to his former partner, and he feels a very painful prick of his guilty conscience as he picks up the phone.

“Yeah?”

“Huh, you’re alive after all,” Harvey says, definitely pleased with it. “Hey, could you put off what you’re doing for now and come to the Forty Second and Lincoln’s? There was an armed robbery and it looks like the Red Hood gang could be involved, so I need someone who’s dealt with those punks before.”

Harvey, even now, even as the Commissioner, talks to Jim the way he used to, even when giving him a case. It’s almost funny. But it also means that Jim has to leave.

“I’ll be there in about half an hour,” Jim says and puts his phone back.

Oswald is nowhere in sight and Jim pays for his drink and leaves, looking about the bar the whole time. He’d like to say goodbye, at least, even if he plans to return, even though he  _ will _ return, no matter what - no bullet or order would keep him away… But what if this whole meeting is a beautiful mirage, and when Jim returns, Oswald won’t be here?

“Leaving so soon?” he hears  _ that _ voice somewhere on his left and, turning, sees Oswald. He’s standing next to the bar entrance, smoking.

Jim stills. Those slender fingers are holding the cigarette, bring it closer to those lips. Oswald takes a long drag, and then exhales the smoke, rounding his lips in a perfect O, and watching Jim all this time. He’s smoking. God.

“It’s work,” Jim says regretfully. “Otherwise I would’ve stayed more.”

Oswald watches him and takes another drag. His mouth should be on that deadly sins list, considering the things that pop into Jim’s mind the moment Oswald presses his lips tighter and hollows his cheeks.

Jim hasn’t smoked for a long time. When he and Barbara got together, she was turning her pretty nose away from his smoking in such a cute way that he just had to drop the habit, even if it made the Army more difficult for him. And he got by without nicotine alright, drowning his troubles in alcohol or his work… But now he wants a smoke so bad.

“Could I bum one from you?” Jim says, nodding at the cigarette, to his own surprise.

“It’s my last one,” Oswald says with regret, but then a mischievous glint returns to his eyes. “But, if you want it so much…”

He takes the cigarette out of his mouth and, still holding it between his fingers, offers it to Jim. Jim’s heart booms in his chest, he makes the decision momentarily and lowers his head towards the cigarette, taking a hungry drag. The hot smoke fills his lungs. Strong and bitter - should he have expected anything else? Oswald’s fingers brush Jim’s lips just slightly, and Jim gets closer, either taking another drag or trying to sneak a kiss to these fingers, and Oswald never moves his hand away and he watches Jim all this time, and there’s something in his eyes that Jim is glad to see, even if he can’t pin down what it is.

“Thanks,” he says, finally letting go, and his voice sounds so husky all of a sudden. And why did he think it would be easy to walk away from him? He’s pinned to the spot as surely as a butterfly.

I must look like a total psycho to him, Jim thinks suddenly, and tries to collect himself.

“I’ll try to drop by in the evening,” he says. “I’ll be glad if we get a chance to talk.”

Oswald gives him an uncertain nod and Jim turns away resolutely. His job - yeah, now it’s definitely not his immediate priority, but no one has to know about that but him. He can do his job, he can stay on task, and he can also wait. For the evening and that chance to talk again. Wait for the opportunity to come and see him again.

He drives to the scene, talks to the witnesses, watches the footage from the security cameras, and the MO is very similar to the Red Hoods, down to the maniacal devil-may-care attitude towards everything. And yet they somehow manage to escape with the spoils and avoid all cameras too. Jim gives orders to the unis almost mechanically, his thoughts very far away from this case.

He’s unable to be half-hearted about anything, they all told him that. Even Oswald, teasing him gently, and softening this painless jab with a warm gaze. Now he looks at him differently. And smiles differently. Before, all these smiles belonged to him, the fool who didn’t appreciate what he had. Before, Oswald’s gaze was full of--

Jim can’t say the word even in his thoughts. Something might break in him if he does, something that still holds his pieces together. And this meeting is a miracle he couldn’t hope for, and one he didn’t deserve. So how can he be thinking about becoming a part of his life again, of evoking any memories of his? Oswald is alive, he’s smiling, laughing, he looks like a dream come true… Jim mustn’t get any closer to him.

Just, just this once, tonight. Jim promised him, and it doesn’t matter that for Oswald it was just an empty promise. For Jim it was way more serious.

He comes back in the evening, exhausted by his anxious waiting. Reports and discussing the case with Harvey did nothing to distract him, and Harvey flat out sent him home, grumbling “You’re losing your touch, Jim. Think about that, and go the hell home to rest”. Jim didn’t listen, wasting his time in the car instead, driving around the city aimlessly. An hour, another one, and another… And then he finally turned towards the bar.

It’s still so cozy inside, with the low hum of the customers’ voices. There are more of them now, in front of the bar counter too, and Jim can’t find a spot. He tries catching Oswald’s eye, but he’s too busy and doesn’t notice him. Jim finds a table to the side, miraculously free, but he can only see a corner of the bar from there, and only catches small glimpses of Oswald from time to time. It’s so difficult to refrain from staring at the bar all the time. Stalker behaviour pattern, he suddenly remembers. Compulsive obsession with the object of his desires, wanting to get noticed by him, wanting to be special for him. Mania. Jim shudders. He could do without going completely mad at this point, thank you very much. And he can explain his behaviour even, but don’t all stalkers feel the same way? Their actions and reasons seem logical to them.

Jim stares at the menu as if attempting to ignore these thoughts, but he raises his head feeling someone’s eyes on him. Just for a moment there’s a clearing in front of the bar, but it’s enough for Oswald to look in his direction, notice him and smile. Jim smiles back, almost frightened, before other people’s back shield the bar counter again.

Jim takes a deep breath and leans back in his chair. He’s mad, must be. What is he doing here, what is he hoping for? And yet he can’t leave anyway. There are so many people, so many go up to the bar for drinks, and the waitress - a different one this time, a redhead - comes up to take his order, so he agrees to the first thing she recommends, unthinkingly. He still sees Oswald’s smile as an afterimage.

Someone forgot a newspaper on his table and Jim tries to read it. No, he’s not a stalker. He’s just here at a bar he liked to while away his evening. Jim wants to raise his eyes to find that familiar figure, familiar face again, so he focuses on the articles with an almost painful concentration. He knows the goings-on of Gotham too well anyway. The mayor is holding a charity gala - of course, since the reelection is coming soon, so he has to lay the basis for good results already. And it’s much easier to do it in a couple of flashy events than to gradually make the city better. The Narrows are still there, for instance, still bring a lot of trouble for the GCPD, and, by the way, Jim’s latest wound he got there as well.

Jim continues to shuffle through the paper, reading something about sports, weather, looks through the horoscopes and the funnies page, but he doesn’t remember a thing he’s read. He takes his time eating the burger too and doesn’t hurry with his beer. Still so many people around…

Then, somehow, the bar goes significantly emptier - maybe some big company moved elsewhere or it was just the way of the weekday, but suddenly there’s a place at the bar, and Jim moves there, trying not to lose the courage he mustered.

“Ah, the cider fan,” Oswald smiles at him, making Jim flush. “What would you like?”

Jim has to swallow the first thing that comes to his mind.

“Something cool… and not a cider,” he says bravely. Cider, way to make an impression. Oswald must think him a lightweight now, or something. But before…

“Oh, cool, is it?..” Oswald quirks an eyebrow, stopping Jim’s train of thought. “Then, I suppose, we shall start with this one.”

He turns towards the taps, allowing Jim to devour his form with his eyes. He looks even thinner now, even though he was thin before… and now it isn’t masked by his layered suit, so Jim can see how lithe and agile he is, like a whip, and it fills Jim with something that feels strangely divided. He can’t deal with that because Oswald returns with a glass of beer and puts it in front of Jim.

“Try this,” he says with a slight smile.

Jim drinks obediently and this beer isn’t like anything he’s tried before. Yes, it’s beer, but the taste is so rich and unusual that Jim has to take another sip, and another. Oswald watches him the whole time, impish sparkle in his eyes.

“Do you like it?”

“Very,” Jim answers sincerely. “What is this thing?”

“This, my dear friend, is an Indian Pale Ale ‘Elvis Juice’.”

“Elvis?” Jim asks, trying not to focus too much on the ‘dear friend’ ringing in his ears.

“Yeah, like the King,” Oswald smiles again, and Jim has to take another drink. “Glad I guessed your taste.”

Jim blushes and it seems like Oswald’s smile widens a little. What, does he enjoy teasing him? Of course, he did before, but… but it was different, and now Jim doesn’t even know how to react. Before, he could hide behind his principles, his role of an unbending pillar of justice in Gotham, the role that had to come between them as an unbreakable obstacle, not allowing Jim to act like he wanted to with Oswald, not allowing them to be together. How silly and absurd this seems now! What an awful fool he’s been all this time!

“How come you decided to become a bartender?” Jim asks, trying to mask the turmoil of his thoughts.

“Well, I was recovering, and my friends needed help here,” Oswald says, looking warmly around the bar - what is he looking for, is it that waitress? Jim doesn’t turn, doesn’t stop looking at his face. “At first just half a day, then one more, and then it became full-time here,” he smiles again. “I got lucky.”

“Was it hard to get used to?” Jim asks, drinking again. Oswald, and suddenly a bartender… who would’ve thought!

“You know, not really. A lot of it is familiar to me somehow,” Oswald tilts his head in contemplation. “Maybe I did something like this before.”

Jim frowns despite himself. He knows nothing about amnesia and the way it works, and how he might be able to help Oswald. Or even if Oswald needs any help…

“What about you, Jim?” Oswald asks and Jim feels warm that he remembered him, and not like a ‘cider fan’ either. “What do you do?”

“What do you think?” Jim plays for time, trying to decide whether he should tell the truth or not. Maybe it would be better not to jog Oswald’s memory, maybe it would be better for him… not to remember.

Oswald looks him over appraisingly, making Jim tense up a little - no, he should look alright, and he didn’t drip the sauce over his white t-shirt… his stubble must be there though… Jim tries to look more relaxed, after all, he’s supposed to be having fun here, but inside he’s all coiled and tense with Oswald’s gaze travelling over him like a soft touch. Jim desperately wants this to go on, for Oswald to continue looking at him, for him to  _ like _ what he’s seeing…

“You’re so tense and serious. You must be working with people, huh?” Oswald nods, not waiting for Jim to answer that. He still reads people so well. “I think you could be a doctor, but…” he takes Jim’s hand suddenly, touching his fingers, and the touch is also so familiar, so needed, and Jim stills - and is it him, or does Oswald still too?

“Your hands are not doctor’s hands,” he says at last, releasing him with a smirk. “And your eyes are so alert. Jim, are you a policeman?”

“Detective,” Jim breathes. “I’m a detective,” he repeats a little louder and attempts a smile. “You could be one yourself.”

“Oh, you!” Oswald laughs. “I just guessed it, that’s all.”

He is distracted by a customer and he walks away from Jim to pour another drink, to smile at others, and Jim frowns jealously. Stalker behaviour pattern, his mind supplies helpfully then, and he tries to calm down, and drinks again.

‘Guessed’, he said, but a guess that hits so close to home is no guess at all. Has Jim underestimated just how well Oswald had been able to read people all this time? Or are these glimpses of memory, coming to the forefront of Oswald’s mind with the answers that he already knows? What would happen if he saw anyone else? What does that memory glimpse tell him about Jim? What did that sudden touch tell him?

If anything, it doesn’t seem like Oswald dislikes him. There he is, looking back at Jim as he talks to another customer, and his gaze is warm, so warm…

Jim didn’t even realize how much he’d been missing this all this time.

“So you’re a detective, Jim,” Oswald says coming up to him again. “Did a case bring you here, or is it just a lucky accident?”

“Both,” Jim replies. “The lead I had resulted in nothing, it seems, but… I found you.”

And Jim means it absolutely literally, but Oswald’s cheeks get pinkish suddenly and Jim realizes this also sounds like a pick-up, and he feels sheepish. Beer, right, he’d better take another sip. And find something to talk about, damn it, he never was wordy, it was always Oswald who could sing like a bird…

“Uh… so, your friends, do they work here too?” he finds something neutral at last, and useful too, let’s not forget about that.

“Yeah,” Oswald smiles warmly. “This is their bar. How do you like it?”

“It’s nice,” Jim nods. “I didn’t expect it to be this good. This district isn’t very habitable still.”

“We’re like a separate city here, yeah. Everything’s a blank slate,” Oswald grins. “Like me.”

“I don’t even know what to say… I can’t even imagine what it’s like to forget everything.”

“Not so bad, I suppose,” Oswald replies. “The doctors say I should just be patient and go on with my life.”

“Did you try to find out anything about yourself? Go to the city, look for someone?” But then he would be recognised, after all, not like Oswald is forgettable… so there would have to be a rumour about the Penguin being sighted in Gotham…

“Nah. Don’t really have the time. By the way, would you like a refill?”

Jim stares at his glass which has gone empty already for some reason, and nods.

“Yes please.”

Oswald pours him another glass and looks at him thoughtfully.

“I must be evoking sympathy with a story like this, Jim,” he says, shifting a little closer. Jim drowns in the green depths of his eyes. “But, believe me, this is quite unnecessary. I’m feeling great, I have a place to live, I have a job and I have great friends. So don’t be feeling sorry for me,” and his gaze has that sharp glint Jim always saw whenever someone tried to goad or humiliate Oswald. He swallows uneasily, his throat suddenly dry.

“I’m not…” Not needed here with all this shameful baggage of the past. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Oswald says. “It was to be expected.”

He walks away again and Jim just senselessly watches the foam bubbles pop. He drinks. Oswald isn’t behind the bar, what, did he leave? Something inside Jim urges him to follow immediately, to go looking for him, but Jim stays in place, just turns to face the room.

Considerably less people in the bar now, and the waitresses are chatting at the separate table Jim noticed earlier today. So, these are Oswald’s friends? They seem like good people. Maybe they really are, and if it’s so, then Oswald deserves it. He’s deserved it a long time ago, to have people who would be there for him not because they feared or wanted to use him, but because they loved him. Oswald’s always wanted that. And that waitress smiled at him not like a coworker, Jim noticed that right away. They acted like family. And Jim himself hadn’t had anything like that for a long time. If he had anything, that closeness, where you’re someone’s joy and they bloom with smiles whenever they see you and talk to you, not asking for anything in return… He only felt that way with Oswald. So how can Jim be so selfish now and pull him back again? He’d be a total bastard if he tried to make Oswald remember everything. What did he have before? His relentless ambition, loss, betrayals. The deaths of both parents and the grief that accompanied them. The way Jim himself acted with him, always refusing his friendship. The way he never allowed himself to be tender with Oswald… And now Oswald has a new life, new endeavours, much more safe than his former occupation, and Jim’s very presence is putting his new calm life at risk.

There’s only one conclusion to draw.

Jim gulps his beer, emptying almost half of his glass in one go. He has to leave. Leave forever, so that Oswald would never see him again, so that he wouldn’t jog his memory even slightly.

So that Jim would never see him again.

The thought hurts so much, but… Oswald is alive, and Jim knows that. So he’d have to be content with this knowledge, this miracle of a meeting, remember his eyes, and live without ever trying to see him again.

Jim decides he would leave once he finishes this glass, but he can’t make himself hurry. He takes small sips, pausing between them.

Oswald returns to his spot behind the bar counter, and his cheeks are slightly pinkish from the evening chill of the air, he smells a little bit of tobacco, and Jim wants to stay here with him more than anything. But he’s always been the selfish one in their relationship, accepting Oswald’s attention, making use of his generosity and fondness, and hardly giving anything back. Shouldn’t he at least try to behave like the ideal he’s chased for so long? Yes, it will bring him pain, nothing but the pain, because this bed of Procrustes can never be comfortable, but it’s the only thing that he can do for Oswald. Even if he never learns about it. Jim would only stay a chance meeting, one of the many customers at the bar, just one face in the crowd. Nothing more.

He raises his eyes to meet Oswald’s. There’s no forgetting this colour. He can only take the memory of it to his grave, which, Jim is certain, is already waiting for him.

He downs his beer and puts the glass back on the counter. The dull sound seems too loud.

“Another?” Oswald asks, coming closer.

“No. I… I’ve gotta go.”

And never see you again, Jim thinks, frowning involuntarily. Should he say something? Ask for forgiveness? It means nothing to Oswald now.

Jim turns away from his beautiful face, standing up. Oh well. The drive home awaits, and then - meaningless days, over and over again, but it should be slightly better now that he knows. He wouldn’t turn back.

“Jim?” Oswald suddenly calls him, and Jim cannot disobey that voice, never could, he’d turn to it even in the underworld, so he does.

Slender fingers grip the collar of his jacket to pull him forward, and, before Jim realizes it, his lips meet Oswald’s, warm, eager, slightly bitter from nicotine and sweeter than dreams.


	5. ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For once, there's no song associated with this chapter. Just the sound of the rain, if you please.

Jim opens his eyes to Oswald’s face in front of him, flushed, eyes sparkling, his lips parted - soft, so soft…

“Jim…” he says in such a voice that makes Jim taut and tense, because he sounds like he did before, as if he’d  _ remembered  _ him. “I’m sorry, it was terribly forward of me.”

Oswald releases his collar and straightens up behind the bar. He’s visibly embarrassed.

“I don’t know what came over me. It’s just, you looked as if you were going away forever, and I, well… I realized I would regret not doing this till my dying day.”

He watches Jim, tilting his head to the side, embarrassed but definitely not sorry at all, and more attractive than anything. Jim stands there as if entranced, unable to react in any way, unable to move at all.

“Jim?” Oswald grins like the Cheshire cat. “Did I break you?”

Something sparks inside Jim then, making him square his shoulders and finally grin back.

“I’m not that easily broken,” he says, not recognizing his own voice. Why does it sound so velvety, so rumbly all of a sudden? “You’d need more than one kiss.”

“Oh, is that so?” Oswald laughs. “Then we should continue!”

Heat engulfs Jim - is he serious, is Oswald not joking? He’d really like to, with him?..

He doesn’t know who you are, the obnoxious voice in his head reminds him, and makes Jim lose his confidence.

“When do you finish?” he asks, regardless.

“Pretty late, I’m afraid,” Oswald shakes his head. “It would be easier for you to just come some other day. You… you would come again, wouldn’t you, Jim?”

“Yes,” he replies, “of course.”

“Then see you later,” and Oswald smiles at him like he never did before.

Jim doesn’t remember how he leaves the bar, how he ends up sitting at the wheel of his car. He never starts the engine, he just sits there astounded. His lips tingle.

God. He kissed Oswald. Well, Oswald kissed  _ him,  _ but no matter - it happened. Their first kiss.

Jim touches his lips lightly, not wanting to erase the memory of the kiss. Those piercing rings pushed into his own lips firmly, as if warning him of the danger, but what did it matter if he’d always known just how dangerous Oswald was for him? He’s the only one Jim never had any protection against - the only one he didn’t  _ want  _ to protect himself against.

And now he’s brushed his determination aside so easily, just asking him to come again. So now what? He would have to break his promise to him, or he would have to risk his safety, his well-being? Just what kind of bastard does Jim have to become?

Why can’t he ever have a simple choice?

And then, at that trial - before it - no matter, anyway… could he have acted differently? What if he got even more stubborn, insisted and made sure the trial was as impartial and honest as possible?

Maybe it would’ve ended up with him getting sent to Blackgate along with Oswald.

And even that doesn’t seem like such a bad idea, now.

Jim exhales sharply, leaning back in his seat and closing his eyes. He thumps his head on the headrest - a belated attempt at setting his head straight, by a couple of years, no less. Everything could’ve been so different. So different.

Lips, soft even despite the piercings, so unbearably gentle Jim’s heart might just burst. And Oswald - he did kiss him, didn’t he. He likes him, for some reason. Jim looks so much more tired now, he’s so much more pragmatic, and he’s become hardened now, having lost that naive idealism with which he’d returned to Gotham so many years ago. What made Oswald like him, anyway? Why did he like him then?

The patter of rain, the black umbrella, the baseball bat in his hand. The hard glint of excitement in his eyes sent a thrilling shiver down Jim’s spine, and it could’ve been so easily explained with weather. Of course it wasn’t love at first sight, but he ended up being unable to get the monochrome angular figure out of his head.

He’s tired. He’s so goddamn tired of everything in this cruel city.

Jim comes to his senses hearing a gentle tap on the window. He opens his eyes, and there, next to the car is…

“Oswald,” Jim whispers, his mouth not moving properly, and rolls the window down.

The rain, as if summoned by his memories, is pattering down on the black umbrella. Even the air smells the way it did then.

“Did you really decide to wait for me, Jim? You didn’t strike me as a stalker type,” Oswald grins down at him.

“No, I…” Jim glances at the watch. It’s 2 AM. “Fell asleep?” he says with some confusion, making Oswald grin again.

“Rather reckless of you,” he shakes his head. “This area is not so bad, to be honest, but you shouldn’t be sleeping in your car here anyway.”

Jim nods uncertainly, either agreeing or admitting his lapse of judgement. Oswald gives him a contemplative look.

“Alright. You’d better crash at my place,” he says. “Because I won’t forgive myself if you never make it home. You can leave the car here, it’s not far.”

Jim stares at him dumbly. The night lights make Oswald’s silhouette uncertain, as if it’s all a dream. Maybe he’s really dreaming now, and if it’s really so, he doesn’t want to wake up.

“Come on, Jim, just agree. You’re not in any condition to drive anywhere and, as I gather, you live rather far from here, or I would’ve seen you earlier.”

“So…” Jim tries to ignore the unwanted thoughts and images in his mind. “Do you often invite complete strangers to spend the night? What if I’m some kind of maniac?”

He does roll up the window and leave the car, locking it. Oswald is so close to him now, holding his umbrella over the both of them, and there’s that impish glint in his eyes that Jim finds himself unable to resist.

“Aren’t you afraid, Jim?” Oswald replies. “What if it’s me who’s the maniac, luring handsome guests over to kill them?”

“I would’ve heard about you then,” Jim gives him a crooked smile. “Allow me?” he reaches for the umbrella.

“How cute,” Oswald tilts his head to the side, surrendering the umbrella. “Your chances of survival increased greatly.”

“Alright, but putting aside maniacs and whatnot… what if,” Jim stumbles, “what if I’m going to come on to you?”

Oswald smiles.

“Again, Jim… what if it’s me who poses the danger to you? Or maybe I want you to come on to me?”

Jim flushes all over, his imagination supplying the images all too vividly. He’s fantasized about it too often anyway, and Oswald’s new look is only fueling Jim’s already very present attraction more, and now…

“It’s getting late, so we’ll burn that bridge when we get to it,” Oswald hooks his arm through Jim’s and starts walking down the street determinedly. “Let’s go.”

They walk through the dark wet streets, seemingly empty at first glance, but Jim knows Gotham enough to understand when there might be something lurking in the shadows still. He tenses slightly, ready to spring to action, when they pass an especially suspicious alley, and catches Oswad glancing at him with curiosity.

“It’s like a reflex, isn’t it?” he asks. “You can’t turn it off.”

“No,” Jim shakes his head. “I’m too used to this.”

“You know… I can’t remember who I was even slightly. Not a glimpse. But I also have a similar feeling, that I have to keep my guard up. What do you think, could I have been someone like you?”

Jim bites his lip. A choice, always a choice, even when they’re making small talk. What choice must he make now? What would be the right thing, not for him but for Oswald?

“You’d be great at it,” Jim answers, not really answering. “You’ve seen right through me from the start.”

Oswald laughs.

“Gotta keep it in mind then, in case I ever get sick of working at the bar. ‘Archibald Ford, private eye’ has a certain ring to it, don’t you think?”

Jim looks at him. His new name sounds distantly similar to his real one, but it doesn’t seem to spark any recognition in Oswald. But if he uses the shortened form more often, it’s not surprising… Damn. Why is he always considering things that could bring Oswald’s memories back, even though he’d accepted Oswald is much better off in this new life, and without him, certainly? Why is he walking with him to Oswald’s place, and enjoying the way their arms press to each other so much that he forgets how to breathe? Why all his decisions are never simple?

“It does,” Jim agrees, forcing himself to smile, to at least seem like this is all small talk for him. “You could also start smoking a pipe, for a more authentic look.”

“Do you like your job, Jim?”

“Well…” It’s too convoluted to be answered unequivocally, has been that way from the start. “It’s hard work in many regards, and I wouldn’t recommend it to anybody.”

“But you’re still doing it.”

“I want to think I make the city a little better that way.”

“How idealistic of you,” Oswald gives him another interested smile.

“There’s that, yeah,” Jim averts his eyes. His colleagues mocked him for that and he doesn’t discuss it with anyone, not anymore. Let’s focus on the cases at hand. What did the autopsy show? Why were the reports late? It’s all strictly task-oriented, and no one has to know what drives him - what still drives him, believe it or not! - and he can keep it a secret.

“We’ve arrived,” Oswald says, distracting him, and detaching himself from Jim to reach for the keys in his pocket. Jim feels colder without that slight contact at once, and he steps closer to shield Oswald from the raindrops that have any chance of reaching him.

The entrance door is creaking and the small lobby is scarcely lit by a single lightbulb - it doesn’t look much different than Jim’s own abode. They climb the stairs to the third floor, Jim behind Oswald and trying very, very hard not to get too enchanted by the hypnotic, if irregular, sway of his hips. He still ends up staring, gulping nervously, still ends up thinking of what it would be like to touch…

“And here we are,” Oswald says, unlocking the door and opening it invitingly for Jim. “Come in, make yourself at home,” he continues, taking off his jacket and hanging it on the rack. “I’ll show you your sleeping place.”

Jim follows his example and shrugs out of his leather jacket as well. He catches Oswald glancing at him, an electrifying, exciting notion. He squares his shoulders just a little more, straightening up.

“Alright,” Oswald clears his throat. “The bathroom’s over there, the kitchen’s down the hall, first door on the right is the living room. There’s a couch there, but it’s comfortable.”

He disappears in the next door and returns with a stack of fresh linens. Jim follows him to the living room.

“This is your bed for tonight,” Oswald gestures to the couch. “I’ve ended up sleeping here when watching TV late into the night several times, and it wasn’t too bad.”

“Thank you,” Jim says, watching him. The couch and sleep are the last things on his mind.

“Um… Do you want anything to drink, by the way?” Oswald asks hurriedly, as if he’s anxious. “Tea? I’m in the mood for a nightcap though…”

“I’ll gladly keep you company,” Jim smiles, hoping for reassuring, and Oswald smiles back before nodding to him and heading for the kitchen.

“Gotta warn you though,” Oswald says, reaching for the whiskey bottle on the shelf. “I will certainly get up later than you, so, if you want breakfast, feel free to take whatever from the fridge. Just leave me a couple of eggs, or something.”

“Okay,” Jim nods, thinking he wouldn’t mind skipping breakfast. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Oswald pours them the whiskey and hands Jim the glass, brushing his hand slightly with his fingertips. Jim smiles gratefully, taking a sip. The whiskey burns his throat, warms him from the inside, but no more than the realization of who is there in front of him, sharing this drink, this evening, this air with him. It all feels unreal, uncertain, as if taken out of its place in time. It’s as if nothing existed before this moment, as if nothing would exist after.

“Oh yes, this hits the spot,” Oswald sighs. “I’ve been thinking about it for half my shift.”

He relaxes onto the chair and rolls his sleeves up. Jim watches him bare his thin forearms - also covered with tattoos, for fuck’s sake, some vines and ornaments, so stark against the pale skin.

“Do you like these?” he hears Oswald ask, only then realising that he’s been staring so hard, following the tattoos’ path up those arms with his gaze, wondering where they could end.

“Yeah,” Jim replies huskily, ungluing himself from the spot and sitting down as well. He drinks more whiskey. “I’ve never thought much about tattoos before, you know… but I like the way they look on you.”

“I’ll consider this a compliment,” Oswald smiles, tilting his head to the side as he looks Jim over. Jim tenses up. What if this is the moment that Oswald remembers everything? What if he remembers Jim?

“Tell me about yourself,” Oswald asks, interrupting Jim’s painful train of thought. “We didn’t really get to talk at the bar.”

“Uh… what are you interested in?”

“Well… things you do, things you like. I wonder if we have anything in common.”

Jim stares into his glass thoughtfully. Have they had anything in common before? His job was both a common ground and a wall between them. Their worldviews, their methods, their social circles all were very different. But they still ended up getting drawn to each other again and again, wanting to be closer…

“It’s a little difficult to talk about the things I do,” Jim speaks at last. “This kind of job seems a lot more romantic in the movies or books. In reality it’s a… routine, like everywhere, only you end up seeing the worst sides of people all the time. As for the things I like…”

Did he mean hobbies? God, does he even have any? Sure, he did sports at school, but…

“Now I don’t really have the time for that,” Jim finishes, hanging his head. Perfect, just perfect. He’s such a catch! He’s so boring, it turns out! Wasn’t that why he was attracted to Oswald, because he never was boring, never could be?

“What about before?” Oswald asks, taking another sip. He looks so relaxed, propping his head with his arm, and he’s so, so… Jim averts his eyes.

“You know… I’ve always been too focused on my work. Only that had meaning, and I ignored everything and everyone, and now… I don’t even have anything to tell.” Jim takes a gulp. “Funny.”

Oswald hums.

“Is that why you’re so serious?” he smiles with his eyes alone.

“I guess,” Jim grins lopsidedly back.

“How come such a handsome and serious person isn’t snatched up?” there’s that smile again, still only in Oswald’s eyes, but it warms Jim up so thoroughly he hardly notices he’s been complimented. “Did no one eclipse your job?”

“No, I mean, I’m not made of stone or anything,” Jim feels sheepish revealing more. “I did try, of course I did… It just didn’t work out.”

“How come?”

“Well, you have to agree a workaholic with no other passions but his work is not an ideal match,” Jim grins, desperately trying for irony, not pity. “Girls always found me lacking something, and to be honest, I felt the same with them…”

“What about guys?” Oswald asks after another sip of whiskey.

“I… never got that serious with guys.”

It wouldn’t do, probably, telling him that all his ‘relationships’ with guys were during his high-school or Academy years, and they all were more interested in sex than in anything serious. And Oswald himself - does he count as a relationship of that kind? With the attraction, the excitement, the longing he provokes in Jim, with how lonely Jim is without him?

“I’m sorry,” Jim says, raising his eyes to meet Oswald’s. It’s difficult to look at him, but not doing so is even worse. “I haven’t tried getting close to anyone… like that, in a long time, and I’m really rusty. This whole thing isn’t very fun for you, I guess.”

“Jim, why did you decide I wanted to be amused to begin with?” Oswald raises his eyebrows. “I’m just curious what kind of person you are.”

“A boring workaholic,” Jim salutes him with his glass. “Pleased to make your acquaintance!”

Oswald snorts with laughter as if it catches him off-guard, and Jim smiles, warm all over.

“What about you?” he asks, relaxing slightly.

“Oh, long story short, I’m an amnesiac bartender - it’s hard talking about the life you don’t remember. My hobbies are also new, I think… like tattoos, for example.”

“I do think they’re pretty,” Jim interjects, glancing over Oswald’s bare forearms, and receives a grateful nod in return.

“As for relationships…” he continues thoughtfully as Jim tenses up again, the cold thought piercing his mind - what if Oswald is already in love with someone, what if he’s just playing with Jim? No, no, that can’t be. Oswald has always been unfailingly loyal, it couldn’t have changed that drastically with his memory loss… but…

“I wonder what it was like for me, before,” Oswald ends up saying. “I don’t have anything I could use that serious a word for right now, those were mere hook-ups.”

“Would you like to?”

“What, to love and be loved? Of course. You’re a funny guy, Jim, really.”

Jim smiles awkwardly, shifting his shoulders. It’s okay if he wants to laugh at him, it’s certainly better than hate…

“And you?”

It’s such a simple question, really, but Jim is set ablaze with the thought of putting a proper name to this desire. Even in his fantasies his feelings remained nameless, as he tried to evade what they really meant, what he wanted so badly.

“You’re so red!” Oswald laughs. “Like you’re burning up! Are you burning up, Jim?”

He reaches forward to touch Jim’s cheek softly. Jim stills before closing his eyes and leaning into the touch, into the hand that had never touched him like this. It’s probably the whiskey’s fault, but Jim doesn’t want to even think how it looks, he just prays for it not to end.

“You like me that much?” Oswald asks him, quietly, and Jim nods without opening his eyes.

“You have no idea.”

“I’m flattered,” he says softly, stroking Jim’s cheek, just a little. Jim is on the verge of purring or crying from how good this feels. “Say… Are you… are you always like this with people you like?”

“No,” Jim shakes his head carefully, but Oswald still takes his hand back, and Jim finds himself unable to look at him.

“And how are you, usually?”

“I’m…” blaming it all on the whiskey and being tired. Jim’s a little bit drunk, so he’s able to openly enjoy this moment of clarity between them, so he’s able to talk about his feelings easier. “I’ve been trying to meet their expectations, I guess. Girls tend to want someone who’d be initiative, determined, someone strong and reliable by their side. So I wanted to give them something like that. I tried to be good, tried not to let work problems shadow my time at home - it didn’t really work out, not when your girlfriend is so curious about your day and wants you to unload and share… but I really don’t want to be sharing this kind of stuff, I don’t like scaring or shocking people…” Jim takes another sip. His glass is almost empty. The whiskey is still burning down his throat, somewhat invigorating. “I guess that’s why it couldn’t work out. After all, I could only be myself, without pretending or hiding, without fearing I’d be rejected, with just one person, with the only person I…” Jim raises his head, wanting to look in Oswald’s eyes as he says it.

Oswald is sitting still, his eyelids closed. His face is relaxed, his breath is calm and even. He’s sleeping.

Jim curls his lips ruefully. His timing is just the best, like always…


End file.
